


Fictober 2019

by Jackeline Harkness (Jackeline_Harkness)



Category: Original Work, Overwatch (Video Game), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Legend of the Crystal Mountain
Genre: Fictober 2019, Fluff and Angst, Kitsune, M/M, Monster Hunters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-15 03:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20859725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackeline_Harkness/pseuds/Jackeline%20Harkness
Summary: Series of short fics, from multiple fandoms, for the Fictober 2019.





	1. 1: Leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Leaves.
> 
> Fandom: Raven universe.  
Pairing: Aradhy/Liam  
General.

1: Leaves.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the intricate scents that enveloped him: the air that had just started to grow cooler with each passing day, the tree’s foliage changing colors and falling down to cover the damp earth that seemed to cling to the summer’s warmth. The fruits that grew and ripened were different, and even the here, in a tiny patch of nature kept captive in the middle of the huge city, there was enough life to let him know that the animals’ habits were changing as well.

Autumn had always fascinated him. It was as if the world started to yawn in a promise of the slumber of winter time. It was a pleasant way of viewing it, and it brought a smile to his lips even as he tried to remember if the thought had occurred to him or somebody had said to him, back in a time that was too far in the past.

He kept his eyes closed even as he heard a rustle behind him, subtle enough to go unnoticed by most of the living creatures around them. It was a luxury of modern times, that artificial light that made the night as bright as day without the danger of fire or the destructive power of the sun, making the colors of the season delightfully vibrant for his unnaturally sharp eyes.

The sound behind him came again, this time closer. He felt the corners of his mouth stretch a little wider even as he tried to school his expression into neutrality. This time, some of the creatures in the park stopped what they were doing in favor of watching for the source of the noise and finding out if it preceded any immediate danger. He, for his part, just took another deep breath, enjoying the autumn night and the spicy scent of the predator behind him.

He didn’t move as the large wolf pounced, sending all the little animals running for shelter. He let himself be tackled onto the lush, if slightly damp, seasonal carpet. He laughed as he and the heavy, furry figure rolled a couple of times before coming to a stop, the old vampire with his back to the ground and the young werewolf playfully on top of him, as if he could actually keep him pinned down.

Elegant fingers combed through the soft, thick fur, grabbing handfuls of it to prevent the shifter from getting to lick his face beyond his cheek.

The protest came first as a canine whine and then, just a second later, in the form of a not-quite-successful faked glare.

“Ben!”

“What is it?” he asked, slow and patient, as if he wasn’t lying down on the ground in the park, with the street lamps lighting up the place even as the waning moon hid behind thin clouds and a naked werewolf boy sitting on top of him.

“Come on! Can’t you smell that? How can you just stand still like that?”

“Yes, yes, pup, we can move.”

And just like that, the warm figure was gone from on top of him.

As he stood up and brushed the leaves off his clothes and hair, he watched the large wolf run among the trees, the smile vanishing from his lips as his thoughts wandered in a different direction. The color of the foliage was, it seemed, not the only thing changing in the world, no. He might still call Liam a pup, but the figure that had sat naked on his abdomen had been nothing like the starved child he’d picked up in the new continent a few years back; the way his human form melted into his canine body was so graceful and fluid that the transition was all but impossible to follow, and the wolf now a powerfully built, formidable beast, nothing like the lanky pup he’d seen run from hunters back in America.

Maybe it was time to acknowledge those changes, too.

Maybe he’d start by telling Liam his real name.


	2. 2: Blankets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Blankets.
> 
> Fandom: Avengers / Captain America  
Pairing: Bucky Barnes/ Steve Rogers

2: Blankets.

Bucky froze for a moment, with one hand resting on the mattress at each side of Steve’s head as the blond looks up at him. It is amazing, he reflected, how things change, even in the brief span of a human life, making each tiny moment unique and impossible to repeat.

He remembered times like this one, for instance.

He remembered a sleepover at his childhood home, his hands on a rough blanket in his creaky narrow bed as he climbed over Stevie to go take a piss in that moment where dawn was just barely a hint of light in the cloudy sky. He’d stopped to study his best friend’s face as if he’d never seen him before, for the first time appreciating the shape of his nose and the arch of his eyebrows, the curve of his lips that for some unknown reason made him bite his own.

He remembered a time a couple of years later, as Steve studied forlornly his sketches, drawn tightly on a small notebook, whining about the fine papers and luxurious pencils and inks that he couldn’t afford. Steve had complained that Bucky wasn’t listening to him, had demanded that Bucky left his boots alone, since more cleaning wouldn’t make a difference in their tattered shape anyway. Bucky had complied with a frown on his face and, taking advantage of the fact that Steve was holding his precious notebook in both hands, rested his own on the ratty sofa, caging the blond in, and leaned down to kiss him once and for all, consequences be damned.

He remembered the threadbare sheets on their shared apartment, how they felt as he fisted his hands on them as they made love, slow and careful because the bed creaked, because they couldn’t afford the neighbors hearing the moans they had to suppress, because Steve’s asthma meant they couldn’t do anything too fast or too hard.

He remembered the cold on his back and the rough material of standard issue bed rolls as he took Steve in a small tent on cracked concrete of the floor where a factory had been reduced to ruins during the war. Steve had been healthier and stronger then, more than ever before, more than himself, but they still had to be quiet because their fellow soldiers were all around them.

He remembered cold and pain, and how they were nothing compared to the horror he felt at knowing he was falling to certain death, and that it meant he was leaving Steve alone.

He remembered waking up and feeling his heart pound in his chest as adrenaline flooded his veins, listening for danger, for enemies. All tension and panic for an instant, before he realized the arm around his waist was a long lost comfort and not a threat. He’d climbed on top of Steve, flesh hand gripping tightly the worn blanket of his temporary safe house in Hungary and metallic hand up in the air and closed in a fist, ready to strike if needed. He’d stared at Steve, who’d let him pin him there for a long time without moving, just staring back at him as if he feared he might break or run away again.

“It’s ok, Bucky,” the blond had said.

Just a couple of days later, he’d agreed to go back to New York with him.

And now… now Bucky looked down at Steve, at the red line that the pillow had marked across his patrician nose and the faint yellow that had been a black eye just the previous night. His flesh hand on the plush comforter and his other one sinking on the soft pillow.

Each and every moment had a way of being unique, like seeing that face he loved framed by old sheets, ratty carpet, worn upholstery, cracked concrete, dusty wood floors, or soft, luxurious bedding. The way the light played with Steve’s features did things to his guts, each and every time.

There were few things, in Bucky’s experience, that always stayed the same: the pull of gravity, the comforting phases of the moon, the warmth of the sun… and the way Steve opened those beautiful eyes of his and all but captured his soul into the impossible depth of their blue.

That, and the way his mouth curved into a perfect, crooked smile.

“Hey, Buck.”


	3. 3: Moonlight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Moonlight.  
Fandom: Overwatch  
Pairing: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada

**3: Moonlight.**

Only the cool light from the moon intruded the dusty space of that unused platform in the Watchpoint as Hanzo stepped onto it, his climbing of the wall not even a fourth of its usual gracefulness and his steps quite a few times louder than their usual ninja lightness.

“Here you are,” Hanzo didn’t say. “Finally found you,” didn’t take the form of sound from his mouth. “If you really did not want to be found, maybe you should have chosen a different place to hide,” also passed through his mind, but never made it past his lips.

In fact, no words came from him at all as he sank down to sit next to McCree, with his movements unusually rigid and his body heavy, grunting in discomfort as he swallowed his pride and gratefully rested his weight against the neglected wall to their backs. Discomfort, he repeated in his mind, because he kept refusing to call it pain.

Jesse was being stubborn, too, as he hadn’t been around to see him while he recovered from being shot in the shoulder during a mission. Even now, he refused to acknowledge his presence in the sort of balcony they now shared in almost-darkness. Hanzo had many times wondered what the original purpose of such platforms was in the Overwatch base, as nobody seemed to be particularly worried about their rehabilitation since the team had gathered back at the location. Especially in the first days following his and Genji’s arrival at Gibraltar, he’d found that they made for convenient places for anyone seeking solitude.

It was there where he’d first encountered Jesse alone. It was there where they’d spent time together, sharing quiet company, and then worries and stories and alcohol and cigarillo smoke and tentative touches and a few kisses that were absurdly shy for men with their history. It was something unnamed, that had just started to turn into something that everyone knew the name of.

He inhaled deeply, wincing just a little bit at the protest of his ribs at the motion, and apparently that was all it took to trigger Jesse’s protectiveness.

“Dammit, sugar, what are you doin’ here? You ain’t supposed to be out of bed yet, much less climbin’ walls like a gecko.”

Hanzo chuckled, and the way it made him hold his breath in… _discomfort_, made him think that maybe he had to admit that Jesse, and more importantly, Dr. Ziegler, were right. Still, he was determined to tough this one out.

“Hana was worried that you’d left.”

That made the cowboy scowl.

“Why would she think that?”

“Maybe it’s the stories about how you all but disappeared before, when things got… difficult, before Overwatch was disbanded.”

“Genji should stop oversharing.”

“Ah, so you finally agree with me there.”

Jesse shook his head.

“I ain’t leavin’. Not when you’re down… ‘specially since it was my damn fault.”

“It was not…”

“I jus… jus’ needed a lil’ while to… ya know…” Jesse interrupted him.

“Sulk?”

“Lick my wounds in peace.”

“Mh,” he stayed silent for a moment, searching for the right words. He was familiar, painfully so, with guilt. “It wasn’t your fault.”

McCree scoffed.

“I was s’posed to be watching your back, and you got shot.”

“From the side,” Hanzo remarked, with a levity that surprised even himself.

“You know what I mean.”

“Jesse, these things happen in our… lifestyle. I knew what I was getting myself into when I chose to follow Genji here. And it is not like my life before that was exactly a model of safety.”

“So… that mean you forgive me for not having your back, or your side,” he quickly corrected, “and lettin’ you get shot?”

“ We are bound to get injured in the field again… and having you blame yourself for that is not helpful.”

“Aw, sugar, you know…”

“You know what would be helpful?”

“What?”

“If you helped me clean up my beard. And the line of my undercut. Dr. Ziegler said it will be at least another week or two before I have full mobility range in my arm again,” to demonstrate, he lifted his arm, until a stab of sharp pain made him grunt and a cold sweat break over his forehead and down his back. Ok, maybe he was being too optimistic when he’d assured the doctor that he’d be ready to draw his bow in two weeks, not four.

“Well, I’m not sure, darlin’. I mean, I can help you trim your beard, sure.”

“And then?” Hanzo asked after a moment trying to make sense of the cowboy’s words while half his mind was seriously considering going back to willingly face the doctor’s wrath and swallow his pride to admit he needed the pain medication after all.

“Is jus’… I like the new haircut, yeah. But I can’t quite decide if I like it better than before. Ya know, with the little silver?”

Hanzo snorted a laugh, and ok, this was more than just discomfort.

“What? I dig it. Kinda reminds me of moonlight, ya know?”

“You’re absurd.”

“But you like it.”

“Yes.”

“Damn, you must really be feeling outta sorts if you’re admittin’ it that easy.”

“Yes,” he repeated in resignation as he accepted McCree’s hand to get pulled to his feet, and then shamelessly leaned against him. “Since I am admitting things already, I also need to go see Angela.”

“Yeah.”

“And help getting down from this balcony thing.”

“It’ll be my pleasure, sugar.”


	4. 4: Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Fire  
Fandom: The legend of the Crystal mountain.

4: Fire.

It was muscle memory. The way his arm muscles flexed to extend the elbow and bend his wrist just so his palm could rest flat against the young man’s torso, the way the energy flowed through him like water through a worn rock path, the way it escaped his skin and entered the other body.

The way the young half-elf went still at the sudden onslaught of powerful raw magic was also familiar, fluid, natural… and painful.

Antares gritted his teeth in an attempt to drown the sound that was trying to escape his throat between his ragged breaths. Blue eyes, with pupils blown wide in a mixture of pain and horrified realization, fixed on his own green ones as fingers let go of the obsidian blade to grab desperately at his clothes.

Darien’s lips parted, and Antares never knew if he’d intended to say something, to beg, to ask for mercy, to curse at him, to utter the words of a spell, or if it was just the beginning of a silent scream. The only thing Antares could focus on was the hint of a blue glow at the back of his throat, where his own damn magic was completely destroying his only son from the inside out.

As the young man’s fingers went lax, Antares caught him in his arms, knowing full well what he had done and that there was nothing he could do to stop it, to reverse it. All he could do was ease the both of them to the ground, and finally let out the animalistic scream that he just couldn’t keep caged inside his chest anymore.

His own scream woke him, like they’d done almost two decades before when he’d dreamed of cursed labyrinths and a mask that had all but chained his soul to its powerful evil, like it rarely happened anymore.

“Antares?” asked Daniel, evidently drowsy, but worried.

The elf knew where he was, knew the dream to be just a fragment of the past… but all his self-control was proving ineffective to steady his shaking hands.

“It’s nothing, Dani,” he tried to reassure his lover even as he rose from their bed and carelessly pulled on a robe as he strode out of their rooms, not bothering with shoes or anything else.

He didn’t need to think, he just let his feet take him through the silent corridors of his sleeping home. The floors were cold where the carpets didn’t cover, and their polished stone reflected the warm, dancing lights from the few candles kept lit here and there by his diligent household. Outside, a gentle wind rustled the trees and bushes, making a peaceful background for the occasional nocturnal animal calling out. It seemed so at odds with the way his heart was pounding in his chest. When he reached his destination he didn’t bother to knock, and just threw open the door to Darien’s room.

The young man didn’t quite shriek, but the sound he made wasn’t exactly dignified either, as he scrambled to sit up on his bed, where he was reading by the small light of a single candle. There were crumbs from some pastry all over the bed covers and his clothes and the cores of two malis sat on his nightstand, no doubt stolen from the kitchen after everyone had gone to bed.

The relief Antares felt was almost painful.

Darien sat on the edge of his bed, trying to be discrete while he brushed the evidence of his nightly snack off himself, and failing completely.

“Can I… help with anything?” Darien asked carefully, his big, liquid blue eyes taking in Antares’s own disheveled appearance. He would have to teach his son not to look like a rabbit when he was nervous or feeling guilty. Perhaps. Someday.

Antares cleared his throat.

“No, just…” he covered the two steps that separated him from his son and rested a hand on his shoulder, where his body’s warmth could be felt through his shirt and his thumb rested just a few centimeters from where his pulse danced at the rhythm of his heart, steady and strong and very much alive. “I am glad that you’re safe.”

“Alright,” and now Darien’s tone was puzzled and intrigued, as well as a little cheeky, as if he was trying to figure out if he had finally caught his father drunk.

The duke couldn’t bring himself to feel annoyed.

Instead, he let himself follow an impulse that he rarely indulged in: he lifted his hand to cup his son’s jaw, and leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead.

Darien chose not to be contrary, and leaned forward to pull his father into a half hug.

“You should be asleep,” Antares said when he pulled back, and the young half-elf’s resigned sigh said that he’d seen that coming.

“Yeah, yeah…”

“Good night, Darien.”

“You too,” he said distractedly as he put some serious effort in brushing the crumbs off his bed.

Antares left him, closing the door behind him and making a serious oath to Darien and to himself as he made his way back to his own rooms.


	5. 5: Sweater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Avengers... kinda?   
IMPORTANT NOTE: This one shot takes place in the universe of my fanfic Snowfall and contains major spoilers for that work of mine, so if you are reading that and do not want spoilers, I recommend that you do not read this.  
Also, this might not make a lot of sense right now, regardless of whether you're reading Snowfall or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I actually had to debate a lot with myself about whether to post this or not... but well, without it, the challenge would not be ready.
> 
> I'm very sorry for the spoilers... and for this making next to no sense at all right now.

5: Sweater.

Remy crossed his arms as another chilly breeze flowed by, feeling his cheeks start to go pink at the amused knowing glance Ilya shot his way.

“Ok, I’m cold,” he finally admitted, perhaps a bit more forcefully than he’d intended.

“Mh,” Ilya just let out, pointedly not turning around from where he was enjoying the view of the San Diego bay. It wasn’t quite raining, but dark clouds had kept the sun’s warmth and light hidden away all day, and the wind was unusually cold, especially there at the Cabrillo National Monument. “Why didn’t you bring your coat? I thought you didn’t go anywhere without it.”

“This is California!” he huffed. “It’s supposed to be bright and sunny and warm!”

“I thought that was Florida,” he said absentmindedly, not even bothering to worry about the part of his mind that was taking in the old fortified defense posts and evaluating their effectiveness and what strategies could be used to both improve or destroy them. The part of his that was an agent seemed to be always working, and after angsting about it for a while, he had decided to take his father, Natasha, and Clint’s advice and, like the archer had said, just let it happen. He still didn’t quite get why Sam had smacked the blond with a murmur of “wrong choice of words, bird bro”, but he’d long since accepted the team’s quirks and learned to just go along with their interactions.

“For old people. California is supposed to be hot and vibrant, full of hot and vibrant people. The coat is just _parfait_, but it wouldn’t do with the aesthetics of this place,” he uncrossed his arms to gesture at the place dramatically, as if it had personally offended him. He held the pose just for a moment, before wrapping his arms around his own torso again and looking away from Ilya, somewhere in the cold waves. “And it would’ve stood out too much. I thought I’d prefer to spend a few days in peace with _ma moitié_, you know?”

This time, Ilya did turn around to look at him directly. Remy was confident, proud to the point of being cocky, brave and always ready to take on the world… but even he could get tired of being stared at and pointed at and sometimes even attacked just for being different. Ilya still didn’t understand what kind of thought process could make someone hate a person like Remy just for the color of his eyes, but he could certainly sympathize with wanting some peace and quiet during their vacation.

In a single fluid motion, Ilya unzipped his own light sweater and handed it to his boyfriend who took it and just… stood there staring at him.

“What?” Ilya finally pressed before their immobility started catching the attention of other tourists walking around.

“With you wearing that shirt, I might not even need to put this on to stay warm, _mon chéri_.”

Ilya chuckled.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I try my best,” and he winked at him as he put the sweater on, flowing gracefully through the motion as he stepped close enough to link his arm with Ilya’s. “Will you be alright?”

“I’m Russian, remember?”

“Ah, that’s right.” A small raindrop hit his cheekbone and rolled down his face as it started to drizzle, and his tongue came out to lick it when it decided to stop by the corner of his mouth.

This time, it was Ilya who just stood there and stared.


	6. 6: Tranquil.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: Tranquil.
> 
> Fandom: Raven universe.  
Pairing: N. Raven / Kerrigan  
Specific tags: fluff, NSFW/lemon/smut.

6: Tranquil.

Kerrigan smiled when Raven broke the kiss out of sheer need for breath and sitting back up gracefully, without ever interrupting the rhythm of their lovemaking.

The beautiful color that had risen to the hunter’s face was familiar, but the way the nerves on his neck tensed, the way his hips’ movements started to get erratic, and the desperate fire in his eyes were rather unusual.

Kerrigan was bold and daring, and he’d never denied himself the pleasures that humans’ company had to offer, and as such, he’d met and enjoyed all kinds of lovers. Among them, of course, were those that insisted on bringing their partner to completion first, just as Raven was doing right then and there. Some had wanted to brag about their physical prowess, some had wanted their ego stroked, some had seen it as some kind of duty or payment. The hunter clawing with stubborn desperation at his hips, though, belonged to another, rather small group.

Raven liked to see himself as tough, pragmatic, practical, even cynical and selfish, and went to great lengths to paint himself in that light and make others perceive him as such. And yet, when he somehow found himself in vulnerable spots, his true nature shone through.

The fox spirit flexed his body in an elegant arch, changing the angle and the pressure where their bodies melted into one, and just like that, both their bodies reached the peak of their pleasure. Kerrigan threw his head back for a moment, basking in the scents and the warmth and the shared tremors that shook their bodies and the pure energy that he could almost see fly between them like sparks.

He let himself fall bonelessly half on top of his lover and half on the rumpled blankets to enjoy the ride down from their shared orgasm.

“We should… get cleaned up…” Raven managed to get out between huffed breaths.

“Mhm,” Kerrigan agreed, languorously moving to lift his head onto a hand and watch the hunter lose his fight against sleep. He inhaled deeply, as he longed to do back in the mountain forests where he’d been born, and observed his lover’s chest rise and fall gently as his breath evened out in sleep, as if he was watching the trees’ foliage dancing at the wind’s whimsical rhythm.

Nicholas Raven intrigued him, made him feel curious and reckless like he hadn’t felt in centuries, a feeling so distant in the past that he could rarely remember it without nostalgia anymore.

The hunter was a young creature, old and experienced enough to fancy himself life-hardened and wary of the world, but with a thirst for knowledge and truth that he could not deny the whole time, and a gentle and caring nature that he’d tried to compromise with by fundamentally living two separate lives as a hunter and as a man.

He was strong and smart enough to tangle with beings and forces a lot stronger, faster, and more powerful than himself on a daily basis, and come out of it mostly unscathed. And yet, he was so frail… the apparently hard muscles so soft that they would tear easily under claws or even something as simple as glass, his bones as easy to break as young bamboo sprouts, his life spark so frail that it could be snuffed out like a candle flame under water in a matter of mere minutes…

Kerrigan leaned forward and licked at his naked shoulder in a single, slow swipe of his tongue.

Then, there was that tinge of something different. Of something that Kerrigan couldn’t quite place, and that could even go undetected on most days but made itself evident in unexpected moments… or expected ones, like when he let himself be completely open and vulnerable while sharing his bed with someone else. At those moments, when he let himself be swept in his own exploding emotions and sensations before letting his whole being rest in genuine tranquility, that something unknown could be sensed like watching fireworks on a clear night. It was something so powerful that it lingered, like jinchoge fragrance in winter. It was something so completely inhuman that it should not be able to mix with humanity in a single body. And yet, there Raven lied next to him, a complex mix of elements that should be at odds with each other, that should be impossible.

It was the kind of thing that had the potential to be a real danger to a being like himself, the kind of thing that had been the undoing of beings older and wiser than a playful kitsune. It was exactly the kind of thing that Kerrigan would never deny himself, the kind of thing that he wanted to savor and protect.

Kerrigan smiled, playing with the messy and damp strands of Raven’s hair. Suddenly, he felt a pang of longing for crisp paper and masterfully stroked calligraphy… and he wondered if Raven would mind if he stole some of his hair to make himself a brush.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I decided to take this challenge in an attempt to jumpstart my creativity, since I've been stuck so badly where creation is concerned.  
I spent a long time debating which challenge to take, and at the end I was torn between this one and a whumptober because I felt like writing about hurt and pain and other bloody things like that, but at the end I took this fictober instead. So, since I was feeling like writing dark stuffs, what I'm actually writing is... fluff. Yup, sounds about right.


End file.
